[ You, she says, and it's the first time in his life that anyone's expressed that kind of sentiment. (Nobody gives a shit about kids like Barry Weiss, too hopped up on pure living for the teachers to try to slow them down, nothing waiting back at home and nothing to their names save what they manage to snatch and steal. Nobody gives a shit about kids like them and nobody gives a shit about them when they grow up, either.) He doesn't manage to answer ('m yours, Polly, always have been) before she speaks again, his brow soon pinching when he hears what else she has to say. ]
Not on y' fuckin' life.
[ He reaches into the circle of her arms, not hard enough to really bump into her — to worsen the damage — but firmly enough that he manages to pop the tin open before pulling (or being pushed) away. The nasty pitch to his voice is gone, replaced by something clearer (something that hints he's much smarter than people usually give him credit for). ]
You need t' get to a hospital, Polly. I can't— I d'know how t' stitch you up.
no subject
Not on y' fuckin' life.
[ He reaches into the circle of her arms, not hard enough to really bump into her — to worsen the damage — but firmly enough that he manages to pop the tin open before pulling (or being pushed) away. The nasty pitch to his voice is gone, replaced by something clearer (something that hints he's much smarter than people usually give him credit for). ]
You need t' get to a hospital, Polly. I can't— I d'know how t' stitch you up.